


Listen Close and You’ll Hear

by ifigo



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Grief Study, Kid Fic, M/M, cry with me a little please, this is very sad but very cute and bittersweet I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29765325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifigo/pseuds/ifigo
Summary: When someone loves, that love carries on long after they are gone. It provides a light that can never be snuffed out, no matter how people may change or how many years fly by. The love remains.An exploration of how Henry’s feelings surrounding the loss of his dad shift as his own children grow older.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Arthur Fox & Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	Listen Close and You’ll Hear

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to C for listening to my rambling and proofreading this for me. 
> 
> Title from In The Silence by JP Cooper

The day they brought their daughter home, after tentatively settling into the living room, Alex with his feet on the coffee table and the baby on his chest, the first thought that passed through Henry’s mind was _This is the dream I’ve been hoping my whole life to live._

His second thought? _I wish Dad was here to see it_. 

It had been nearly a decade, but particular things still had the power to knock Henry back. Force him to take a step. Reevaluate. Push forward, and grow around the hole in his heart. 

The bittersweetness lingered, months later, years later, two more children and a full house later. There was an absence, one neither new nor unfamiliar, but thoroughly felt nonetheless, rearing its head in creative new ways now - the same empty chairs sat around at different tables. Every year, the same memorials. Every year, the same dark ache. Every year a little older, without his dad there to see it. 

One day, when they were all just old enough to notice but still harboring the boldness that makes them willing to talk about scary things, Henry and Alex’s children asked why they had three grandparents on Pa’s side, but just one on Dad’s. They explained, of course, kindly, calmly. 

The kids were curious, as they always were, and Henry sat up with them telling stories about Arthur until the late hours of the night, Alex holding his hand the whole time, unwavering. He was happy to tell them anything about his dad. He was so thankful they were interested, that they were engaged in the conversation, that they smiled when he smiled, that sometimes a little hand reached up to wipe away his tears. Telling his children about everything - the cancer, the waiting, the real reason he was sad at the start of each summer - broke his heart all over again. It made his children’s loss real. 

Henry had Arthur for eighteen years, was raised by him, cared for and loved by him through everything from scraped knees to flashing cameras. But Henry’s kids had been taught to hold a grand appreciation and joy over a grandfather that they never got to have. Emma and Charlotte and Arthur - they were happy, but they would never know the extra love that they were missing. He wanted to fix it, more than anything, he wanted to bring back the piece of their hearts that was torn away so long ago, but there was nothing he could do. 

There was nothing he could do to fill the emptiness. 

But then, Henry began to see. Pieces. Fragments. Glimmers in the gaps around their lives, little things only the most careful observers would see. 

Henry first noticed when he was coming up to bed late one night. His elder daughter’s lamp was on and the door was open, and peering through, he could see all three children gathered in a circle on the bed. The twins had snuck into their older sister’s room - they must not have been able to sleep - and she was telling them a story. The twins sat tall and attentive, little eyes wide and stuffed animals clutched to their fronts, gasping in all the right places as their sister spoke. He couldn’t hear what his daughter was saying, but he could clearly see the way she spoke with her little six-year-old hands flying through the air, gesturing for emphasis, making motions for the most important lines and phrases. She hunched over to deliver some lines and sat straight-backed for others, putting on different characters without breaking her flow. There was no book in front of her - she was spinning her own stories out of thin air. She was performing all on her own, even just for an audience of two. Giving her all to make them just a touch happier. 

And then again, months later, when Henry was picking up the twins from preschool. While the teacher was talking to him, he saw Charlotte off to the side, waiting patiently at a table with her friend, hands crossed on the place in front of her as they chattered. Her friend cracked a joke about someone across from them, pointing and laughing. Without hesitation, Charlotte snapped to her and said something in a quiet tone. After a minute, her friend got up and stomped away, slamming her chair as she went. When Charlie finally ran up to Henry to go home, she had tears on her face. _She was mean_ , she explained through her sobs, _And I told her not to be, and she said that if I didn’t want her to do that then we wouldn’t be friends, and I said okay, so we’re not friends anymore_. That girl had been Charlotte’s best friend all year - but she wouldn’t tolerate cruelty, especially from those she cared about the most. Even if she broke her own heart in the process of letting them go. 

Predictably, it’s the similarities in his son that hit the hardest. The next summer, they’re in London on June 20th, and it was the first time he’d been there on his dad’s anniversary in years. The family was together under one roof, which was already a rare occasion, not to mention the fact that they were getting along quite well and mostly smiling. Henry was quietly enjoying the sight of his husband and his brother actually engaged in a friendly conversation when he realized he hadn’t seen Arthur in a while. Scanning the room, he found his son in an old chair off to the side of the main group, curled up on his grandmother’s lap. He had tucked his head under her chin, and Catherine was smiling down at him, whispering softly about something. When she felt Henry watching them and looked up he could see tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, and for the first time all day, she smiled an honest smile. Arthur could tell Catherine was sad, even if no one else did, and left the conversation to quietly keep her company. Just as he always had known to do. 

When Henry paid attention, his father was everywhere, just in a different way than he’d hoped and planned. 

As his children grew, it was impossible for Henry not to see it. Emma’s selflessness. Charlotte’s constant bravery. Arthur’s first name, of course, but also his unwavering compassion and peace. 

Emma’s flawless mannerisms during appearances. Charlotte’s playful death glare when crossed. Arthur’s unfiltered smile at all hours of the day. Emma’s uneven dimples, Charlotte’s long hands, Arthur’s untamable cowlick. 

There were other things too, darker things. How Emma would always feel guilty if she wasn’t doing something outwardly productive. How Charlotte pushed and pushed until she had no choice but to slow down. How Arthur never wanted to acknowledge his own difficulties, but to be the one to protect everyone else. 

In the silence, there were shadows of a man they never knew. At least not outright - they learned about him through stories from the world and from their family, but that was nothing in comparison to the real person. Yet they knew the real person better than they thought they did. Whether nature or nurture or just plain coincidence, Arthur was there after all.

And somehow, at least for Henry, it helped fill the sorrowful crater in his heart with something closer to wonder, or maybe, just simply, love. 

Somehow, against all the odds, his dad was a little bit alive in all of them. And that made all the difference. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!  
> comments and kudos make my day


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